


Haunted

by BaffledJailbird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Horror, M/M, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaffledJailbird/pseuds/BaffledJailbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is pursued by the eerie apparition of a rape and murder victim. Only he can see her which makes him wonder; has he really fallen into so deep an obsession that it's threatening his sanity? He's losing himself, and worse yet, he's losing John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunted

Sherlock could still remember the first time he saw her. At the time he hadn’t known it, but now he was certain. Keeping his breathing even he glanced sidelong to see the grotesque figure in his peripheral vision and winced.

She wasn’t always this hideous. Just on the bad days, Sherlock had realized. She stood silently, dripping blood onto the floor. The flesh of her neck slashed through exposing the bone, a part of her chin missing where her jaw peeked through. The molars trickled with tiny crimson rivers flowing down her neck and into her dress.

In the darkness of the flat, Sherlock pulled the tourniquet tight and twisted off the cap to the needle with his teeth.  He angled the syringe over his vein, pausing to look up through dark lashes at the bloody figure’s empty gaze boring into him.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Three Weeks Prior

It was a gruesome crime scene; the rape and murder of a young girl by a serial killer. His patterns were clear, but the scene was a month old at least. The acrid smell of the rotting corpse had finally transcended the brick walls and upon a complaint of a passer by walking her dog, plumbers had come in to check the pipes and found the body.

Sherlock’s irritation rose contingent to the amazingly clean job the killer had done to hide his traces. The girl’s entire lower stomach had been carved out, and Sherlock suspected this had been done post-rape to ensure nothing of his DNA could be found and traced.

John wasn’t in the room. He’d spent the first few minutes with Sherlock to listen to him and to make helpful observations before excusing himself for a breath of fresh air. Frankly, Sherlock didn’t blame him. He’d seen a lot of death, but the brutality of this murder was particularly startling. Murder, as exciting as it may be, was still murder. Empathy, not being Sherlock’s strongest suit, had come to be something less foreign since John’s arrival in his life.

The killer had been immensely careful not to leave anything behind. Not one measly shred of incriminating evidence to at least give him the smallest lead. There was nothing left but an indirect approach. It wasn’t hard to know who she was; she’d been missing for a month and Sherlock had already seen her missing file when it was first circulated by Lestrade telling the team to keep a look out. At least then he’d have somewhere to start.

The walls wherein she’d been left were of an old abandoned store house. It had a date with the wrecking ball in the next year, and Sherlock suspected that the killer was confident the body would go undiscovered long enough for the wreckers to get there and compromise the evidence further.

Sherlock felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the thought. The killer was thorough, but also over confident. The detective had seen other victims of rape and murder that were likely by the same hand, but the trails had invariably run cold and the cases were set aside in the unsolved archives.

John returned to the room, now composed and was relieved to find the girl’s body removed.

“Anything?” He asked.

Sherlock snarled and gave a curt shake of his head. “No, but I’ll be going to the morgue to conduct some tests on her body to see if there’s anything I’ve missed.”

John sighed but said nothing. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that this particular case seemed to be affecting the good doctor more than usual.

“You can take the evening off, John. I work better alone at the lab in any case.”

The doctor looked at Sherlock in surprise and after a short pause he smiled almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah, think I’ll go ahead and get us some dinner and get to bed early.” Sherlock knew neither would be touching food tonight, but at least if John picked up some take out they’d be prepared for tomorrow.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

As John and Sherlock were climbing into Lestrade’s car, the detective took a last glance behind him and saw an outline of someone next to the dilapidated store house. He squinted to make out the figure, but when he blinked it had gone. It had happened too quickly for Sherlock to chalk up to anything logical, and though his mind told him it could have easily been a trick of his peripheral vision, there was something uncanny about it. Shaking his head free of superstitions, Sherlock climbed into the front seat and slammed the door.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It had been a long night of testing on the body. He was looking for a stray hair, a piece of foreign fabric, a fingerprint, a DNA trace, anything. The state of decomposition she was in made it more difficult and ultimately the detective had come away after thirteen non-stop hours of running headlong into one wall after another.

Feeling utterly defeated, he trudged up the stairs to 221B and went inside. He slid out of his coat, hanging it on the hook by the doorway and then proceeded up the stairs to the bathroom. Once relieved, he went to wash his hands and upon looking up into the mirror he jumped back with a violent intake of breath. There was the specter of the bloody dripping body reflected, standing behind him.

He whirled around to see nothing; his heart was hammering in his chest and his breathing had become labored. His eyes roved around the room wildly before glancing back over his shoulder into the mirror to see nothing but his distraught face looking back at him. All the blood had drained from his head and he stood staring at the deep bruises under his wide eyes set in ivory skin. Sherlock watched his reflection for a moment, half-expecting to see the apparition again before swearing under his breath and resolving to go over the case files again. What ever he had seen had been nothing but a figment of his mind and likely a retinal projection of the deceased he had spent so many hours looking upon at the morgue.

Of course he knew this was bullshit, but nothing else made sense. Delirium was a product of exhaustion, he knew, so he figured the best course of action was to buckle down and go over the case for the umpteenth time until he fell asleep.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

John woke early to find Sherlock asleep on the sofa with a folder file splayed over his chest. The doctor could tell that the detective must have had a bad night because the bruises under his eyes were especially visible in the pale morning light. John crossed to the windows to close the blinds for Sherlock’s sake. He knew that if he were too loud he might wake him, so instead of performing his usual ritual in the morning, John simply dressed for the surgery and left early to grab some breakfast on the way.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Sherlock awoke later in the evening after a long and much needed sleep. Groaning quietly, he stretched his arms and legs and opened his eyes to find wide green eyes staring at him from the other end of the sofa. Sherlock froze. He didn’t even breathe. There before him was the murder victim, whole and in one piece.

“You,” he whispered.

The girl said nothing as she continued to stare at him curiously. As Sherlock watched he realized that there was an odd flicker to her image. It was barely perceptible; a bit like a failing image transmission on an old television.

 _I’ve actually gone mad._ Sherlock thought dismally.

The girl was suddenly standing over him. He hadn’t seen her move. One moment she was at the opposite end of the sofa and the next she was next to him. Sherlock started and jumped to his feet to back away. The girl’s eyes followed him with the same childish curiosity and Sherlock felt what was left of his composure coming absolutely undone.

“You’re not real,” he growled. “You _can’t_ be.”

It was then that Sherlock’s mobile went off on the table next to the sofa. The girl ignored it, but Sherlock lunged for it in one fell swoop and practically stabbed the call button when he saw John’s name on the display.

“John.” Sherlock said as calmly as possible.

“… Oh, you answered. I just thought we could go out for a nice dinner and maybe some wine. I think we both need it.”

Sherlock didn’t even hesitate. “Italian. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

Not waiting for John’s reply, Sherlock snagged his coat from the hook by the door, jammed his feet into some nearby runners and left the flat in a flurry, not once looking back.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Sherlock, is everything alright?” John asked as soon as the detective sat down in the booth across from him.

Acting entirely blasé, Sherlock shrugged off his coat elegantly and smoothed his windblown hair with one hand. “Everything’s fine.”

John examined Sherlock’s eyes carefully for a long time before asserting that everything was of course _not_ fine, but John knew better than to prod. Sherlock had his secrets and John gladly let him. It was an unspoken pact, don’t ask, don’t tell.

John never did mind it, but when he noticed Sherlock’s hand trembling as he brought the glass of water to his lips, he had to admit he was worried.

“How’s the case going?” He asked casually.

“Still nothing.”

Before John could reply, the server arrived at the table with a friendly smile and took their orders. The rest of dinner was actually fairly enjoyable. Sherlock had needed the outing, and though John could tell there was still something bothering him, the wine Sherlock was sipping was relaxing his nerves.

“Will you be taking the evening off, then?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I hate to admit it, but I think I need the break.”

John’s brows nearly jumped off his face.

“Really?”

Sherlock gave him a petulant look.

“Yes, believe it or not, I _am_ human. The body is too slow for the mind, and unfortunately no amount of training will make my body any more than it is.”

John chuckled warmly. “Crap telly then?”

“Fine. As long as it’s not a crime thriller.”

“Shouldn’t be hard to accommodate.”

Sherlock swirled the ruby red liquid in his glass and took a small sip before looking out the window. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The girl’s materializations become more insistent and intrusive as the next week wore on. At first she would only appear if Sherlock was alone in the room, but that had soon graduated to her being in the room when John was as well. John could never seem to see her, but he did note on a few occasions that the temperature of the room was unnaturally cold.

Sherlock refused to say anything. If only he could see her, then clearly she was his hallucination. The cold room could easily be attributed to the weather and the approaching winter season. Sherlock figured he’d developed a deep obsession with the case of the murder victim and that her ghostly visits were a product of his deteriorating sanity. It was Sherlock’s pride and fear that kept him from saying anything about it.

The strain her appearances were putting on him was taking many shapes. Firstly, his concentration was always off because her presence in the room seemed to have a frequency that resonated with Sherlock’s mind and would never let him rest. As a byproduct of this, Sherlock had been off his game. The only escape he seemed to find was while he slept and as a result he’d been sleeping more often, much to John’s amazement and concern.

The third was the most poignant; the apparition was strongly affecting Sherlock’s relationship with John. The doctor wasn’t stupid and he could clearly see the drastic changes in Sherlock’s behavior, but when he asked about it Sherlock merely made up an excuse as an answer. His excuses got him out of the fire the first few times, but as his behavior became more erratic, John was starting to understand that whatever Sherlock was hiding was much more severe than he let on.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

John knew and accepted that Sherlock had his secrets, but this was ridiculous. The man hadn’t been himself for the last two weeks and half. Bullying him into a check up had proved fruitless as the diagnosis was the same as ever; Sherlock was underfed, but he was healthy. He used to be underslept, but that had changed drastically. Recently John would come home to find Sherlock taking periodic naps, and although the rest seemed to improve Sherlock’s mood, it was getting in the way of his usual work ethic. Rather than being married to his work, he seemed to be sleeping on it.

John had confronted him gently a couple times in the past weeks and Sherlock’s stubborn refusal to speak candidly was starting to piss him off. Not only did he feel unusually alienated from his best friend, but his growing concern for him was bordering on panic. He’d never seen Sherlock like this and the thought that there was nothing Sherlock would let him do to at least try to help was making him feel utterly helpless. John couldn’t help questioning himself. Had he done something wrong that he didn’t remember? Was there something he’d missed? What was it?

But John knew it couldn’t be something he had done. It was at the start of the rape and murder case that Sherlock had first started acting differently, and John suspected that the unsolved mystery haunted Sherlock in ways that he could understand only too well. John had his own share of ghosts he’d brought back with him from the war and he knew how potent their memory could be.

But why this girl? Sherlock had seen murder everywhere and there was no reason this girl’s case should be so different. Finally he decided he had to ask.

After making two cups of tea, John came into the living room and set a cup in Sherlock’s hands before sitting across from him in an armchair.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“What’s wrong, really?”

Sherlock was staring vacantly over John’s shoulder and seemed to have trouble tearing his eyes away to focus on John’s face.

“I’ve already told you.” His eyes finally met John’s.

“No, you haven’t. Look, Sherlock, I haven’t pried because I can usually guess what’s bothering you and it’s none of my business. But this time what ever is going on is playing havoc with you and I can only help if you tell me what it is.”

Sherlock sipped his tea calmly. “I’m experimenting with a new thinking process.”

“By sleeping all day?” John shot back skeptically.

“Unconscious cognitive systems; I am accessing information in my unconscious mind where there may be information I have overlooked while awake.”

“As convincing as that sounds, you’ve never needed sleep before to help you pick up on the finer details. For Christ’s sake Sherlock, that’s who you are. You’re the man who can write novels about someone or something you’ve only glanced at once. I know it has something to do with the girl, Sherlock.” John’s tongue skidded to a halt at the dangerous look on his friend’s face.

“I’m tired.”

“You just slept!”

“Then I’m going out.”

“Where?”

“The lab.”

“It’ll be closed.”

“Molly gave me a copy of the key.”

“Fine! Jesus. I just wanted to help.”

John watched in raging silence as Sherlock pulled his coat and shoes on, grabbed the case files and his phone and left the flat.


End file.
